


Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

by FridgeWitch



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Trauma, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:45:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1826767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FridgeWitch/pseuds/FridgeWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How many times have we done this?” he asked Stiles.<br/>He watched the tears roll down the boy’s pale and sunken face.<br/>Stiles smiled once again.<br/>“I forget.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

“You have to stop this.”

Derek looked up from the newspaper he’d been skimming- local politics, new highway construction, something about an art show at the middle school; not much going on in Beacon Hills this week. His brow lifted.

“Reading?” he asked, doing his best to smother the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.  
Stiles let out an exasperated sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, eyes screwed shut, resting his free hand wearily on his hip. He looked so much like his father that Derek nearly laughed.

“You know,” Stiles said simply.

Derek didn’t.

He sat perched on the edge of Stiles’ bed, ankle resting serenely across his knee, his paper unfurled upon his lap. Stiles stood at his desk, no more than a yard or so away, a threadbare copy of some cheesy science-fiction novel abandoned at his feet, a solemn expression on his face. The late afternoon sunlight poured in through the window, casting gentle shadows around the room. Derek watched them shift as Stiles moved, sweeping out a hand to indicate something. 

“You can’t keep doing this, Derek,” he pleaded. “It’s not good for you, for anybody.” He tore his fingers through his hair, as if trying to rip the ideas from his skull, so that he wouldn’t actually have to say them.

He started to pace. “It’s just going to keep getting worse the more you do it. It’s gonna be more painful every time.” He wasn’t even looking at Derek now, but around the room, taking in the posters on the walls and the grooves worn into the carpet. One hand had found its way to his mouth, where he proceeded to gnaw on his thumbnail, while the ended up clasped tightly onto the back of his neck. His eyes were wide with panic and worry.

Derek stood, tossing the newspaper aside. He took a cautious step towards the frantic human. “What’s going to get worse?” he prompted. “What are you talking about?”

Stiles stopped and spun swiftly to face Derek, splaying his arms out as wide as they’d go.

“I’m talking,” he spat, “about this. This whole setup. It’s not going to do either of us any good in the long run.” He thrust an accusing finger at Derek’s chest. “It’s only gonna make you more miserable, and it’s gonna tear me apart from the inside out, because I need it just as much as you do.”

Derek set his shoulders back and furrowed his brow. He looked Stiles up and down, like he might be able to see in his body whatever it was that his words were leaving out. He spoke carefully- a man who has just had his sanity questioned is not a man to be taken lightly.  
All of the harshness fell from his face. “Stiles,” he reassured him, “it’s alright. Everything’s fine.” He held his hand out, palm downward, as though it could anchor the boy’s thoughts. “We’re here-” His fingers flexed for emphasis. “- in your room, in your house. We’re in your room, after a long day, and we’re just sitting here reading. That’s all we’re doing.”

“No, Derek, we’re not reading, we’re not just ‘sitting in my room’- when have we ever just, like, hung out together and read or something? When have we ever interacted where there hasn’t been some insane wolf-man chasing after us or some ungodly terror trying to destroy the town?” Stiles body was taut, lips drawn to a narrow line across his face, his eyes brimming with some emotion Derek couldn’t place. Fear? Disappointment? 

No. Pity. That’s what it was. Stiles pitied him. Pitied this poor, dumb werewolf who just couldn’t get the punchline. Stiles sighed again, a much softer sound than before. The tension seemed to leave his body all at once. He rubbed his hands against his face before burying it in them, another expression of weary acceptance that he’d no doubt picked up from the sheriff. 

“You have to stop,” he whispered through his fingers. “’Cause don’t know how much longer either of us can take it.” There was a tremble in his voice, a crack beneath the weight of his words. 

And still Derek didn’t understand.

He took another step forward and placed his hands gently on Stiles’ shoulders, thumbs brushing against his collar bone. “Stiles,” he urged, as softly as he could, “what do I have to stop?” Derek gazed in earnest at the space where Stiles’ eyes should be, still hidden behind his delicate fingers. For a moment he just continued to stare, waiting for an answer from the other side of those digits.  
“What did I do?” he finally asked. 

At that Stiles raised his head; his hands fell away. On his face was the most miserable smile that Derek had ever seen, a small comfort before a terrible truth. Stiles reached out a hand and lifted the hem of Derek’s shirt.

It was only then that Derek noticed the blood oozing down his side.

“Oh,” he said dumbly, staring now at the crimson stains he was leaving on the carpet.

“Yeah,” replied Stiles, his smile morphing into a grimace. He glanced from Derek’s face to the blood trail and back again, eyes glistening and red.

Derek bit back the urge to laugh. “So that’s how it is.”

Stiles looked lost. “I’m sorry,” he croaked. “I’m so sorry.”

Derek forced his own defeated smile.

“How many times have we done this?” he asked Stiles.

He watched the tears roll down the boy’s pale and sunken face.

Stiles smiled once again.  
“I forget.”

 

Derek woke to the sounds of harsh footsteps and machinery. The world was dark, and cold, and the air smelled of dust and stagnant blood. His blood. He felt the ache of the bindings as they dug into his wrists, and the searing pain of the wound on his hip. He let the tears flow freely now, now giving a damn if his captors saw. Let them think he was weak; he already knew that he was.

Why? he thought to himself, tasting the salt of his own bitter longing.

Why couldn’t you just let me dream?

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and critiques would be appreciated, guys. Lemme know what you think!


End file.
